


you make me wanna show you where that thing goes (dive into all that smoke)

by hellstrider



Series: Into You [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Cock Warming, In which Geralt is still a Witcher and Jaskier is basically Ariana Grande, M/M, Siren!Jaskier, Witcher!Geralt, reupload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: it'sthree in the goddamn morning.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Into You [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596667
Comments: 11
Kudos: 553





	you make me wanna show you where that thing goes (dive into all that smoke)

**Author's Note:**

> reuploading all my shit. sorry.
> 
> title from alexis texas by cruel youth
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier

“Geralt.”

“Mm?”

“It’s _three in the fucking morning._ ”

And Geralt _doesn’t fucking look up_ from what he’s working on,

Some ancient scroll of Sidhe origin he’s been _painstakingly_ translating for the past, oh - _twelve hours?_ Maybe more?

And it’s _three in the goddamn morning_ and,

Now,

_See,_

Jaskier’s developed a rather - _irritating_ habit,

Where he _can’t fucking sleep_ if Geralt’s not beside him,

( _Which has really,_ honestly, _hand to the Gods, become a_ fucking problem _, especially when he’s out on tour and Geralt has to go galavanting off after some monster,_ )

But, he digresses - Geralt doesn’t look up from the scroll he’s translating at his desk in the office/lab/armory as Jaskier speaks, and Jaskier is _so fucking tired_ , is _beyond_ it, and it’s been _maybe_ more than _twelve goddamn hours_ of this,

And, _look,_

Jaskier is the _definition_ of _supportive,_

All he _writes about_ is Geralt, _for fuck’s sake,_

But it’s _three in the morning_ and he can’t sleep without Geralt (an issue to be addressed _At A Later Time_ ,) and he’s getting _tetchy_ and Geralt doesn’t _fucking look up_ when the Siren speaks, 

So Jaskier pads across the office, weaving carefully around piles of ancient tomes and rickety tables bearing vials of powdered raven’s beaks and phoenix tears and whatever else it is Geralt keeps locked away in the protected, warded office,

And everything reeks of _magic_ and _elixirs_ that turn Geralt’s eyes _black,_

And Jaskier’s in one of Geralt’s huge t-shirts - the one with the hole at the collar and what’s most likely _blood_ on the hem - and a cherry-red pair of boy-shorts, knee-socks slouching down his shins,

Is all lavender shampoo and the fading scent of his cologne, and Geralt’s _nose_ twitches as Jaskier nears, as he drapes himself over the back of Geralt’s chair, a huge black leather thing on wheels, a thing Jaskier affectionately refers to as Geralt’s Final Boss Chair, which Geralt, of course, _hates_ ,

“ _Baby_ ,” Jaskier croons, _right_ against Geralt’s ear, and he splays his hands over Geralt’s chest as the Witcher hums low, as he finally sets down his fucking pen and leans back, and he smells like clove and smoke, like ink and weariness as Jaskier noses over his cheekbone,

“I’m almost finished, little lark,” Geralt burrs, and Jaskier huffs and drops his head despairingly as he groans, “how close is _almost,_ wolf?”

“Give me another hour, love,”

“ _Geralt,”_

“You’re aware you’re only _prolonging_ the process at this point?” Geralt asks, turning his head to gently kiss over Jaskier’s jaw, “Istredd needs this by morning, sweet thing,”

“Why can’t _he_ do this?”

“He doesn’t speak this dialect,”

“What _good_ is he, then?”

“ _Jaskier,”_

And, _look_ ,

Jaskier is _well aware_ he’s pouting like a _child_ , is _well aware_ he’s _this close_ to stomping his damn _foot,_ but it’s _three in the fucking morning_ and he’s _exhausted_ and he _can’t fucking sleep without Geralt,_ which he’ll address at _another fucking time_ , thank you _very much,_

And he knows it’s playing _dirty,_ when he starts to nuzzle at Geralt’s cheek, when he starts to gather up Geralt’s shirt with greedy, _needy_ hands, and the Witcher burrs out a soft, utterly love-lost, “ _Jaskier_ ,” as the Siren gets his paws _all over_ Geralt’s bare stomach,

But then the chair’s turning and Jaskier’s knees are between Geralt’s as the Witcher catches his hands and kisses over his knuckles, as he hums and noses over one of Jaskier’s palms,

“I can give you something if you can’t sleep, little lark,”

“I don’t want _Valerian tea,_ ” Jaskier says, nose wrinkling, “it’s absolutely _disgusting_ ,”

“I have quite a bit more than Valerian root,” Geralt says wryly as his huge hands slide over Jaskier’s hips, 

And, _really,_

He didn’t know what Geralt _expected_ when he turned the chair around, 

But the Witcher doesn’t try to stop it as Jaskier slides over his thighs, as he nestles up against Geralt’s chest, noses into the juncture of his throat, where it smells like warm skin and clove and vanilla, like coffee and ink and something vaguely like the way lightning _looks_ ,

“Can give me _you_ ,” Jaskier mutters, arms sliding around Geralt’s neck as the Witcher slips a hand under his t-shirt, calloused palm feeling all the world like fucking _deliverance_ when it slides up Jaskier’s spine, and he can’t fucking _help_ the pathetic little _moan_ that falls from his lips when Geralt runs his knuckles over the dimples in his lower back,

Because he’s fucking _exhausted_ and Geralt’s touch hits like a fucking bump _normally,_

So in this hugely _vulnerable_ and _entirely_ petulant state, _it’s_ \- it’s sort of like a _bump_ mixed with fucking _speed,_

( _Not that Jaskier has any_ recent _experiences to_ compare _to, seeing as he stopped that nonsense once he’d fallen headfirst into one Geralt of Rivia, but_ still,)

And then Geralt’s humming in his chest and Jaskier is reduced to fucking _putty_ in the Witcher’s lap, is melting against him with a sigh that comes out more like a _whine,_

_And -_

“Geralt, _are you_ -” and Jaskier feigns scandalized _shock_ even though he’s half-hard as Geralt slides a hand over his ass and _squeezes,_ dragging Jaskier in _close_ as he breathlessly asks, “are you _hard right now?”_

“You’re _climbing all over me_ ,” the Witcher burrs, nosing over Jaskier’s ear, “in one of my shirts,” and,

“You _smell_ like me,” and,

“I know you’re doing this on _purpose_ , sweet thing,”

Well,

_Yes,_

Because;

“ _Nothing_ you could give me to help me sleep works as well as _you_ ,” Jaskier murmurs, fingertips splaying over Geralt’s lips, and those golden eyes are both dark and soft as they rove over his face, “come to _bed_ , baby,”

“Just another hour, Jaskier,”

Which has Jaskier whining even as he puts his lips to Geralt’s, as he _grinds_ slow and _easy_ against the hard line of Geralt’s cock in his jeans, and the Witcher slides his hands up under Jaskier’s shirt, the shirt that’s _actually_ Geralt’s, as he kisses Jaskier in the way that has his socked toes _curling,_

“You’re so _infuriatingly_ immovable,” Jaskier murmurs fondly against Geralt’s mouth, hands gripping the back of the leather chair as Geralt strokes over his waist, “I hate that your dedication is one of the reasons I fell in love with you,”

And Geralt smiles then, and Jaskier kisses over the shape of it, sticky and slow, kisses over Geralt’s jaw until he’s nuzzling down against his throat,

“You don’t have to leave, sweet thing, but I do need to get this done,”

 _“Fine_ ,” Jaskier huffs, and he’s idly fiddling with a lock of white hair, cock fully hard in his cherry-red underwear, when _inspiration_ hits; Geralt turns back to his work, seemingly _perfectly_ content to let Jaskier _cling_ to him until he’s done,

But _he’s still -_

“You’re still _hard_ ,” and Jaskier trails his fingertips over Geralt’s chin as the Witcher’s jaw clenches, “must be _aching_ by now, huh?”

And,

 _Inspiration strikes_ as Jaskier noses up the line of Geralt’s throat, as he feels the deep, burring “ _little lark_ ,” Geralt utters down in his _bones,_

“It’s always so fucking _cold_ in here, darling,” Jaskier says, lips against Geralt’s jaw as he rolls his hips, and even though it’s _cold_ , heat rushes up the curve of his spine at the _mere_ thought of - “I could keep you _so_ warm,” and,

“ _Nothing_ you could give me to help me sleep works as well as _you,_ my wolf,” and,

“I’ll be _good_ , let you -” and here the Siren slides a hand down, slides it down so _slow_ , but Geralt doesn’t make a single move to stop Jaskier from cupping his dick through his jeans, just lets out a soft, _growling_ breath that ghosts over Jaskier’s lips when the Siren purrs, “let you _finish,”_

And,

Those gold eyes are _dark_ when they meet his own, eclipsed sunlight piercing through sweet sky-blue, 

When Geralt gently frames Jaskier’s throat with one huge hand, slides his thumb over the Siren’s pulse,

When he says, “if you aren’t, _you_ don’t get to,” and,

Jaskier grins, 

As Geralt reaches for one of the drawers of his huge mahogany desk,

Because _this?_

This is not the _first time_ they’ve misused Geralt’s _Final Boss Chair,_

And Geralt leans back, lube in hand, as Jaskier tugs at his belt, as he pops the button on Geralt’s jeans, and the Witcher isn’t wearing _underwear,_ because _of course he fucking isn’t,_

But when Jaskier moves to divest himself of his own cherry-red boy-shorts, Geralt catches him by the thigh, growls, “keep those on,” _and,_

 _“Fuck_ ,” Jaskier chokes out, and Geralt’s nostrils flare with the spurt of pre that the Siren’s poor dick _oozes_ , the pre that _soaks_ through the cherry-red satin of his underwear,

And he nearly fucking _loses it_ when Geralt gathers that cherry-red fabric aside to slide two slick fingers over Jaskier’s entrance, 

When he sinks one finger in to the last knuckle, brows arching as Jaskier _moans,_ the sound rolling through his throat thick and sweet as _honey_ , and he’s groaning and _panting_ until he’s absolutely _keening_ when Geralt crooks his finger and hits his prostate, makes stars explode over his vision, and,

“You’re already so _wet_ , sweet thing, _fuck_ ,” Geralt growls, deep voice gone sideways as he slides another finger past the _tight_ clutch of Jaskier’s muscle, “ _hold onto me_ , little lark, I’ve got you, that’s it,” 

And Jaskier pushes back against Geralt’s fingers, drags his mouth over the Witcher’s cheek until he’s catching the low burr Geralt lets out between his teeth, until he’s riding Geralt’s hand like he does his cock, and Geralt squeezes one of Jaskier’s hips hard enough it’ll bruise,

Squeezes his hips and holds Jaskier _still_ as he slowly withdraws his fingers, 

And Jaskier’s the one who fumbles for the lube, 

The one who wraps _both hands_ around Geralt’s cock to slick him up,

But _Geralt_ is the one who guides the Siren over his aching length, the one who commands Jaskier _right_ where he wants him with such ease it’s got Jaskier feeling like he’s just done a fucking _line,_

Well,

_Wait,_

No,

That’s not -

_Accurate,_

He thinks _wildly,_

As he sinks over Geralt, as he takes the Witcher in to the _hilt,_

Because Geralt is _better_ than _any fucking high_ he’s ever felt,

Which is why he’d _stopped_ all that nonsense when he fell headlong in love at _first fucking sight_ with the Witcher with the sunlit eyes and a voice like a goddamn _avalanche,_

With a heart that loved _harder_ than any he’d _ever_ known,

_And,_

It’s better than _any fucking high,_

When Geralt gentles Jaskier over his cock and gathers him in _close,_

When Geralt burrs in wordless _praise,_ and the sound shoots _right_ down to Jaskier’s poor, abused -

 _“Fuck,_ you’re big,” Jaskier manages, squirming with it, and - _look,_ he _knew that_ , obviously, but it’s _so much more apparent_ , when he’s - when he’s just _holding_ Geralt like this, when he’s got the Witcher buried in his lithe body to the hilt, keeping him _hard_ , so fucking _warm_ , 

“Flattery won’t make me work any faster, little lark,”

“It’s not - _flattery_ , surely I’m not the first to - _mention it,”_

“The first that _mattered,_ ” Geralt burrs, because he’s a brilliant _idiot_ and knows _exactly_ what to say at all the wrong times, because Jaskier _promised_ he’d be _good,_ but when Geralt mouths over his cheek and _says that,_ says, ‘ _the first that mattered_ ’, all he wants to do is ride Geralt until he can’t fucking _breathe_ ,

“That’s _so_ unfair,” Jaskier whines, and his cock _hurts_ with how hard it is, trapped in the satin confines of his cherry-red underwear, and Geralt chuckles as he leans forwards, as he starts to - fucking _work_ like he’s not buried _balls-fucking-deep_ in the Siren on his lap,

And all Jaskier can do is slide his arms around Geralt’s neck and burrow against him, nose smushed up against his pulse, thighs gripping the Witcher’s hips as he _tries not to move_ , as he tries to be as _good_ as he _fucking can,_

And this?

_This is -_

Going to be far more _difficult_ than he’d anticipated.

Because _Geralt keeps -_

He’s _moving_ , as he translates, _just,_

Twitches of muscle as he _writes,_

Rolling flexes and furls as he reaches for another scroll on the desk,

But _every single twitch,_

Every single _flex,_

Jaskier can _feel,_

But _most of all,_

He can feel the way Geralt _isn’t_ fucking him, like he’s sunk into some kind of - _negative space_ , like he’s resting in some kind of _void,_ and while he’s so _full_ he can feel Geralt in his _throat_ , Geralt isn’t - isn’t _fucking him,_

But _he’s_ \- he’s _writing_ and he’s _reaching for things_ and his muscle keeps _rippling_ under Jaskier’s fingertips, just as his ribs keep swelling with air, as his too-slow heart _thunders_ through the cage of Jaskier’s chest,

And it’s - absolutely _maddening_ , if he’s being _totally_ honest,

Is beyond _any_ kind of torment he thinks he’s _ever_ endured,

And Geralt seems _perfectly content_ to have Jaskier in his lap, to let Jaskier _cling_ to him,

To have Jaskier keep him _hard_ and warm in the tight, _wet_ clutch of his body,

As he fucking _works_ like he’s _not_ buried _balls-deep_ in Jaskier,

And Jaskier _shifts,_ shifts to settle more of his weight in Geralt’s lap, 

And the Witcher’s cock _throbs_ when he does, 

Which has his body _clenching_ , gets his teeth _grinding,_

And Jaskier buries a _pained_ , entirely _needy_ whine against Geralt’s throat as the Witcher hushes him gently, as he slides a _reassuring_ hand over Jaskier’s spine,

As he burrs, “you’re doing _so_ well, little lark,”

And Jaskier’s cheeks _burn_ with the praise as he curls into Geralt’s chest, as he buries his face against the swell of Geralt’s huge shoulder, fingers catching up in the thin fabric of Geralt’s worn t-shirt,

 _“Relax,_ sweet thing,” Geralt says then, and genuine concern leaks into the Witcher’s tone as he cups the back of the Siren’s head, “ _Jaskier_ -”

“You feel _so_ fucking good,” Jaskier blurts breathlessly, before Geralt can get all wrapped up in any kind of guilt, “ _fuck,_ Geralt, I’ve never wanted you to bend me over this desk more than I do _right fucking now_ , so if you’d be _so kind_ as to finish whatever _nonsense_ this is for _fucking Istredd_ , I’d be _much_ obliged,”

“Don’t know how I feel about you saying another man’s name when you’re on _my_ cock, love,”

“Oh, _really?_ ” and Jaskier tips back to meet those golden eyes, still so soft, so flush with adoration it sort of has Jaskier choking up, a bit, “but you doing this for _Istredd_ while you’re balls-deep in _me_ is fine?”

And it’s not _serious_ , none of it - it’s a _game,_ and Jaskier can feel the flutter of captured laughter in his chest as Geralt sucks in a cheek, as he sets his pen down and tries not to give in to a smile, 

As he slides his calloused palms over Jaskier’s thighs - and it’s a sign of how utterly _gone_ Jaskier is, when he _moans_ like he’s just fucking shot his load as Geralt just strokes over the inside of his thighs, as he thumbs over the crease of Jaskier’s groin,

And then Geralt is rolling his hips,

Is fucking _so_ slow and _so_ deep into Jaskier, and all Jaskier can utter is;

“Oh, fuck _, Geralt,_ Geralt, _oh -”_

And a deep, _satisfied_ burr resonates through the cavern of Geralt’s chest as he pumps his hips once, twice, _three times -_

Before going completely _still,_

And Jaskier slumps down against Geralt’s chest with a _frustrated,_ aching groan,

With a petulant, _needy_ , whining “ _Geralt,_ ” 

But,

“Not quite finished, Jaskier,”

“I hate you,”

“This was _your_ idea,” Geralt says as he strokes gently over the nape of Jaskier’s neck, “say the word, little lark, and this stops,”

“ _No fucking way,_ ”

“Well,”

“How are you so - _unaffected?”_

Which makes Geralt bark out a _laugh_ , a _genuine_ laugh, and then there’s a hand under his chin and Jaskier barely has a moment to swallow down his heart when it surges into his throat before Geralt’s kissing him within an _inch of his fucking life,_

Before Geralt’s tongue is _fucking_ into his mouth the way he’s _not_ fucking into Jaskier,

And Jaskier’s head is fucking _spinning_ as Geralt kisses him until the Siren is _panting_ , until he’s _drooling,_ a little, and the Witcher catches it on his tongue before it can roll down his chin, 

“If you think I’m _unaffected,_ sweet thing,” Geralt says, right against Jaskier’s lips, “you haven’t been _paying attention,_ ”

 _“Oh,_ ” Jaskier manages, voice _mangled_ , utterly _brutalized_ , and Geralt squeezes his ass before he -

Goes _right back to fucking work,_

While Jaskier squirms in his lap until he settles, until he gives Geralt all his weight, until he melts into the Witcher, and his stupid dick _hurts_ but he’s starting to get used to the way Geralt _fills_ him, is starting to get used to the way he feels at the back of his _throat,_

And he shoves a hand up Geralt’s shirt to press his palm over the Witcher’s heartbeat, going a little faster than it normally does,

As he nuzzles at Geralt’s pulse,

And Jaskier still _aches_ with every roll of Geralt’s muscle,

Still _burns_ with it and _gasps_ with each soft lurch of Geralt’s body,

But he’s getting _used_ to the sensation of Geralt _not_ fucking him, and Geralt is warm and strong around him, beneath him,

Buried _inside_ him, and,

It’s almost _four in the morning_ and he’s _so_ fucking exhausted,

“Wake me,” Jaskier breathes against Geralt’s throat, “if I fall asleep,”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,”

And Geralt chuckles a bit, the sound vibrating down to Jaskier’s aching core as the Witcher strokes down his spine, as he kisses Jaskier’s temple in a wordless promise,

So Jaskier lets himself -

 _Drift,_ a bit,

Drift on the way Geralt _smells,_

The way he _feels,_

The way he surrounds Jaskier like a _goddamn fortress,_

Keeps him even as Jaskier keeps Geralt hard and warm between his thighs, _and,_

He _must_ fade into some soft kind of sleep,

Because between one heartbeat and the next,

He’s cradled in Geralt’s lap as the Witcher works in his office, the office that’s always cold, the office that reeks of magic and elixirs and whatever else it is Geralt keeps here, _and then -_

And then Jaskier’s on his back, is floating in soft blankets sheets that smell of _vanilla,_ of _clove_ , of _cedar_ , of musk and _sweat,_

As Geralt kisses down the side of his throat, as the Witcher slides a gentle hand down one of Jaskier’s thighs,

And they’re _both_ stripped entirely bare, and it’s hazy and _so fucking warm,_ because the electric fireplace on the far side of their bedroom is going and Geralt’s caging him down, is all _heat_ and sheer _bulk_ over Jaskier, 

And the clock on the nightstand reads four-thirty,

“Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles, and the Witcher’s answering burr has his dick half-hard in under a second _flat,_

“There you are,” and Geralt sounds amused as he noses over Jaskier’s cheek, as he thumbs over his hipbone, and Jaskier huffs as he palms over Geralt’s bare chest, as he catches the wolf medallion in one hand and drags the Witcher in for a _wet,_ sleep-stale kiss,

A kiss that _quickly_ dissolves into -

Jaskier’s hands sinking, _desperate_ and _clinging_ , into Geralt’s hair,

As the Witcher slicks himself up again,

As he licks into Jaskier’s mouth and swallows down the _breathless,_ needy moans the Siren lets loose, the moans lashed with the _sea_ , the moans he makes Geralt _feel_ , and,

Jaskier’s _drooling,_ a bit, 

As Geralt sinks into the _hot_ clutch of his body, as he pushes the Siren’s legs back and fucks into him the way he _hadn’t_ , 

The way Jaskier knows he’d _wanted_ to,

And,

“You know it’s _only_ you,” Jaskier breathes, hands sliding over Geralt’s jaw as the Witcher’s golden gaze pours over him, “you _know_ I’m yours,” 

And he doesn’t expect Geralt to use words, not for this,

But he hears them _anyway,_ hears the promises of absolute devotion in the way Geralt kisses him, in the way the Witcher grips his hips and fucks with purpose into him, thrusts measured and utterly _gouging,_ the kind of thing Jaskier knows he’ll be feeling for _days_ ,

Because even if their gentle teasing is just a _game,_

Jaskier still needs him to - to _know,_

To _hear_ it,

 _Feel_ it,

And he lets the sea _crash_ over his tongue when he keens out Geralt’s name against the Witcher’s lips, as Geralt frames his throat with one hand and pushes one of Jaskier’s thighs back with the other,

As Geralt coaxes heat further and further up his spine,

As he sends gooseflesh _rushing_ down Jaskier’s arms, pebbling across his flat belly,

And then the Witcher’s dragging an open, _panting_ mouth down the Siren’s throat,

Is nosing over his chest, 

And it’s enough to make him _shout,_

When Geralt suckles at one pink, pierced nipple and grips Jaskier’s hips so hard it’ll _bruise,_ when he fucks into Jaskier with a _single-minded focus,_

Until Jaskier is uttering his name like a goddamn prayer, 

A litany of “ _Geralt,_ oh, _fuck,_ Geralt, _Geralt,_ like that, _right there_ -” that has Geralt _snarling_ , because Jaskier can’t swallow down the sea now, and with each pounding thrust his control is _slipping_ , slipping through his fingers as fine as _sand,_

Until the _full brunt_ of his inheritance is coming over his tongue,

Until Siren’s song is flooding the room _proper,_

And Geralt lets out a ragged, “ _fuck,”_ as Jaskier _whines_ and noses at his cheekbone, as he clutches at Geralt’s shoulders and keens out a soft, agonized, “ _Geralt_ ,” and,

Everything is heat and _need,_ is desperation and _saltwater,_

As Geralt moans, “ _Jaskier,_ your _voice_ , fuck,” and,

“Let me _feel you_ , that’s it, fuck, _fuck_ -” and,

“I’ve never wanted _anyone_ ,” and Geralt says it against Jaskier’s jaw as he fucks hard and quick into him, the way that’s got their bed shaking and the tide crashing through Jaskier’s chest; “the way I want you,” and,

“The way I need _you_ ,” and,

“Everything I _am_ belongs to you,”

And the Siren’s song is _flooding_ the room as the bed _shakes,_

As Geralt frames Jaskier’s jaw with a benevolent hand, 

As Jaskier clutches at his wrist and weaves clever fingers through the Witcher’s hair, 

As Geralt sinks to drag his gentle teeth over a pebbled nipple,

As his free hand curls around Jaskier’s weeping cock, a touch that has Jaskier’s spine _curving_ , has his heels _digging_ into the mattress as his blunt, manicured nails carve red _ruin_ up Geralt’s glistening back, _and,_

 _“Geralt,_ fuck - _oh, fuck, oh_ , Geralt -”

And everything goes _white,_

As Geralt _growls_ against Jaskier’s chest,

As his hips stutter and his cock _pulses_ , as pure _heat_ floods through Jaskier’s overworked, utterly _exhausted_ body,

The body Geralt cradles like it’s something _holy_ as he goes still, as he feeds Jaskier an aching, _sated_ moan, a thing that spills over Jaskier’s tongue like the _finest_ fucking champagne,

And for a handful of moments, they _stay like that_ \- just, 

Trading the air that _burns_ in their lungs,

Open, _bruised_ mouths sliding together,

Until Jaskier _whimpers,_

Until he lets his needy tongue _unfurl,_

And Geralt slides a thumb under his Siren’s chin as he bows to kiss Jaskier _proper_ , as he swallows down the soft sigh of sheer _relief_ Jaskier lets out, 

As Jaskier digs his heels into Geralt’s ass when he tries to pull out,

As he says,

“Next time,” and Geralt’s nostrils flare as Jaskier undulates beneath him, arms sliding up over his head to grip the sheets, “you wake me up like that. Understood?”

And,

It’s with _great delight_ that Jaskier watches those sunlit eyes _eclipse_ , 

And Geralt’s hips strain,

As Jaskier _taunts_ the wild little thing he _knows_ Geralt tries to swallow down, tries to keep _tame,_

But then Geralt’s thumbing over Jaskier’s lips as he arches a brow,

And Jaskier puts his tongue to the pad of Geralt’s thumb, holds those _dark,_ eclipsed sunlit eyes with _sweet_ sky-blue,

As Geralt murmurs, “who said I was about to let you sleep?” and,

Jaskier grins _sharp_ and _quick,_

Nips at Geralt’s thumb,

Slides his arms around the Witcher’s neck,

And he’s utterly _exhausted,_ but if Geralt wants to _fuck him to sleep_ , it’s not like he’s about to say _no,_

So,

 _“Nothing_ you could give me to help me sleep works quite as well as _you_ ,” he croons as Geralt slides his hands up under Jaskier’s thighs, as his cock starts to swell in the clutch of the Siren’s body; “so get on with it, _darling,”_

And,

Even though the translation Geralt was so _dedicated_ to getting done was _technically_ finished on time,

Istredd doesn’t receive it until it’s almost _three in the fucking afternoon_ the next day,


End file.
